“We’ll be related in a few days,” said mother. “Just pretend we already are.”

“Are you insane?” Achilles’s dark eyes examined the length of my mother’s body. “No one told me Agamemnon married a madwoman.”

Mother’s voice became dangerously low. “Young man. I am not mad.”

“You must be. I’m the son of Thetis, goddess of the sea. I’ve slain a thousand men. I wear glory like other men wear scent. Why would I marry your daughter just because you tell me to?”

“My husband sent for us,” said Clytemnestra. “He said that you wanted to marry my daughter.”

“Why would I tell him that? I’ve never even seen her.”

For a long moment, mother fell silent. (My head, ringing with emptiness, the sound of forgotten memories.)

“You’ll forgive me if I sound skeptical,” she said at last, “but either you are mistaken, or my husband is lying. What should a loyal wife believe?”

Achilles’s eyes hardened like metal.

Before Achilles could speak, the slave Iamas pushed himself between the two of them. He turned toward Clytemnestra, panting, his face red with exertion.

Mother snapped, “What do you want?”

Iamas told them your plans. He revealed how the armies had delayed in the harbor, waiting for a wind. He told of how the goddess had demanded a sacrifice, and how the wedding was a ruse designed to lure us to my death.

All around us, the air was as still and expectant as a held breath. (Me, in my bed, forgetting green and figs and wool.)

“Tomorrow,” Iamas said, “They will do it tomorrow at dawn.”

My imagination caught on the moment when you forged your plan with Menelaus, Odysseus, and Calchas.